ficletober day 31 - geraskier with implied geraskefer
It's the night of the annual Halloween party at the Rivia-Vengerberg manor, and a host of supernatural creatures are about to arrive. Too bad Jaskier, the resident party planner and werewolf, forgot that tonight's a full moon.
And this is my last ficlet boys! No warning's for this one. It's just kooky goofy Halloween nonsense. Featuring the Witcher cast as varying creatures in a nebulously modern au.
Hopefully you've enjoyed reading my weird little ficlets this month as much as I've enjoyed pooping them out every day.
“Fuck,” Jaskier swore, cursing the Universe. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
In a perfect storm of unfortunate events, the first guests attending his annual Halloween shebang hosted at the Rivia-Vengerberg manor were due to start arriving in under an hour, the party supply store down the street had had a woefully small stock of fake spider webs, leaving the house scantily underwebbed, Lambert had just called to say he would be late with the keg, the Spotify playlist he had made for the evening suddenly seemed like it was in the wrong order, and he had forgotten, in all of his planning, to account for the fact that tonight was a full moon and that he, Jaskier, was the resident werewolf.
More pressingly, he’d misplaced his favorite pair of fishnet tights.
“Geralt,” he called down into the basement, voice pitched louder than was probably necessary. “Geralt, are you still sleeping down there? It’s nearly evening. Time to wake up.”
He tiptoed down the stairs, not really wanting to invite Geralt’s ire if he had woken up on the wrong side of the coffin. The vampire had never appreciated his manor being the site of Jaskier’s annual party but tolerated it for reasons unknown.
In the basement, he crept past the hot water tank and pool table and assorted cardboard boxes to approach the stone coffin set on a raised dias at the back of the room.
The lid stood propped open, and the pale vampire was sitting up rubbing at his temples as though he already had a headache.
“Geralt, I can’t find my fishnets,” said Jaskier, and Geralt sighed. “Oh, don’t sigh."
“I didn’t sigh,” grumbled Geralt, sighing some more.
“I can’t possibly pull this Dr. Frankenfurter costume together without a good pair of fishnets. I’d just be a sad, goth drag queen rather than– Geralt, are you listening?”
“No,” he said. “What time is it?”
“Nearly six,” said Jaskier. “Pay attention, my friend. Fishnets.”
“I’d check Ciri’s room,” mumbled Geralt. He rubbed at his face a while longer, making no move to rise from the coffin. Jaskier immediately bounded up the stairs but paused at the top, dangling on the hand railing to poke his head back into the basement.
“Oh yeah,” he said, “and I forgot uh… it’s a full moon. May have slipped my mind during the party planning. So like. When I wolf out when the moon rises, don’t let me bite anybody. That would be a smidgen embarrassing, wouldn’t it? Nearly as bad as a few years ago with the ice sculpture.”
He ducked up the stairs before he could hear Geralt’s likely judgemental answer.
Truthfully, nothing could be as bad as the ice sculpture.
And, fortunately, he was a fairly tame terrifying creature of the night. Gnawing non-consensually on people’s flesh was not his thing, even when transformed into a mindless wolf creature.
From what he had been told, because no matter how hard he tried, Jaskier could not remember his monthly episodes, his wolf form was not much different than his human one, except with less vocal skills and slightly better dance moves.
Horrible taste in music though. One year, his wolf form had ruined his Spotify Wrapped by playing Nitty Gritty’s Fishing in the Dark for seven consecutive hours.
Jaskier entered Ciri’s room with trepidation. She technically no longer lived here, off on interdimensional time travel adventures doing whatever it was a teenaged girl with universe-hopping superpowers did, but it still felt wrong to intrude on her unnervingly pastel childhood bedroom. There were a great deal of unicorns and far less half-dissected dead rats than there had been when she lived here.
Geralt was right of course, and he found his fishnets flung over the back of her desk chair. He thanked his lucky stars that they were not hopelessly tangled, and he had not had to dig through a young girl’s underwear drawer. He had half-worried that Yennefer would emerge suddenly from a darkened corner just when he was wrist-deep in bras.
The witch had yet to show herself today, though he knew she was somewhere in the house because someone kept adding My Chemical Romance songs to his trial run of the Halloween playlist blasting through the bluetooth speakers in the living room.
“Yennefer!” Jaskier called, nearly face-planting down the ornate grand staircase as he tried to pull on his fishnet tights and scurry down them at the same time. “Quit looming in the shadows like some gargoyle and help me with my corset!”
The witch materialized without a sound before him, and he did trip down the last few steps into the faux cobweb-strewn foyer, sprawling on his ass on the blood-red rug. If he did not know that Yennefer dressed like Morticia Addams every day of the year, he would compliment her Halloween costume. As it was, he scoffed at her lack of creativity.
“Come on, Yennefer, you could at least mix it up a little,” he said, wrinkling his nose as he leapt to his feet. “You of all people should fully embrace the Halloween spirit. Wear some jewel tones or something. At least one color.”
“I’m an immortal witch who lives with a vampire and an idiot werewolf in a secluded, haunted manor on a hill,” she said. “Every day is Halloween for us.”
“It’s not really haunted, is it?” he asked. “I haven’t seen any ghosts.”
“Haunted by your irritating presence."
"Yennefer. Help. Corset."
“Turn around,” she said and began to lace and tighten his corset with sharper tugs than strictly necessarily. “Isn’t it a full moon?”
“Yes, yes, I forgot the moon phase. No need for everyone to bitch at me about it.”
“I’m certainly not bitching,” she said. “Wolf man you talks far less. I could do without the leg-humping though.”
Jaskier made an apologetic gesture.
"Don't lie. You love the leg-humping."
Yennefer scoffed.
When he got drunk enough, he was prone to humping Yennefer’s legs even in man form.
Ciri was the first of the guests to arrive, spiling through a shimmering portal into the middle of the living room. She was dressed as the Thirteenth Doctor, and a unicorn stepped through the portal behind her, wearing a Dalek eyestalk covering the slender horn on its forehead.
Jaskier considered reminding her that this household had had a firm “no horses allowed inside” rule since the infamous Roach in the attic incident, but he wasn’t actually certain if unicorns counted as horses or were just vaguely horse-shaped. Ciri glared at him like he had brought it up anyhow. It was probably rude to accuse a sentient being of being a horse when they weren’t, and Jaskier was nothing if not a considerate and gracious host.
Living with several people who could either read his mind or knew him so well that they didn’t have to was just inconvenient.
Not long later, Eskel arrived dressed as a lumberjack with enough casserole dishes of assorted food to feed dozens of people, holes cut in the lumpy beanie on his head to accommodate his curved succubi horns, and Lambert showed up only a little late with the keg, wearing a leather jacket and cuffed jeans, grinning as impishly as expected, given his nature. His sharp, little teeth glinted, and his hair was slicked with grease around the pointed nubs of his horns.
“No poodle skirt?” Jaskier called, grateful for the arrival of the beer but unable to avoid giving his least favorite of Geralt’s weird brothers at least some shit.
Lambert flipped him off. His forked tail casually snagged a pigs in the blanket from one of the platters Eskel was arranging.
“I’ll be the one laughing tonight, Wolf Boy,” he said. “How’s that moon feelin’?”
“I have another hour at least,” said Jaskier. “It’s barely dark out. Speaking of, where the hell is Geralt? He’s not going to hide away in that creepy little crypt of his all evening. He’s supposed to stop me from using anyone as a chew toy.”
“What are you supposed to be anyway? A sad, goth drag queen?”
Jaskier gasped in scandalized affront, just as another My Chemical Romance song began to play from the speakers, and he hurried off to fix his playlist once again.
Triss Merigold showed up bearing several bottles of wine in a blush-pink Playboy bunny costume that clashed horribly with her red hair, and his flagrant ogling of her exposed bosom was cut short when the very scary Philippa Eilhart stepped up to press a hand to her lower back. She was wearing tufted wolf ears and sharp fangs, plus a bright red cape, which he personally felt was a bit derivative of yours truly but was not about to open his mouth to comment and risk being turned to ash.
The rest of the Coven of Sorceresses, or whatever they called themselves, appeared one after another. There were several among them dressed in sexy witch costumes, which seemed nearly as uncreative as Yennefer, who technically had refused to participate.
Fringilla Vigo had apparently missed the sexy part of the memo sent by the group and was dressed in full stereotypical wizard regalia, complete with moon and stars cape, pointy hat, and long faux beard. She got tipsy on Merigold’s wine very quickly and kept accidentally smacking people with her oversized wizard staff, giggling girlishly.
“Geralt?” Jaskier called into the dark basement. “The party’s in full swing, you know. I could transform into a significantly hairier fanged beast at any moment. Geralt, are you busy moping? Is this because the unicorn is allowed in the house and Roach isn’t?”
“I’m not moping,” said Geralt, decidedly moping in his coffin. “I’m meditating.”
“Your brothers brought beer. And those tiny biscuit-swaddled baby hot dogs you love so much,” said Jaskier. “Regis just showed up. He’s dressed as Dracula again, which… come on, does no one have even a small shred of creative integrity anymore? I know he’s a different flavor of vampire than you, what with the whole ‘doesn’t burn in the sunlight and isn’t allergic to garlic’ thing, but it isn’t that a bit of an offensive caricature? He’s talking with a really bad Transylvanian accent. That should be my gig tonight!”
Geralt’s inability to eat garlic bread was really, horribly, desperately sad to Jaskier, so he brought it up in conversation as often as possible, just so that Geralt knew he hadn’t forgotten that Jaskier was incredibly supportive of his depressing garlic-related plight.
“Go away, Jaskier,” said Geralt. Rather than go away, Jaskier took a running jump and vaulted himself into the coffin with his friend, only poking him a little in the shins with his tall, heeled boots.
“Are you having a case of the Mondays?” he asked. “Are you in blood withdrawal? Is it really the unicorn? I can ask it to leave but it does have a four foot sword on its forehead, so if it stabs me right to death I–”
“It’s not Ihuarraquax,” said Geralt. “Or blood withdrawal. Or… it’s not even Monday, Jaskier.”
“As previously-stated, I rarely have any clue what day of the week or month it is, Geralt.”
“I’m just not feeling up to partying tonight.”
Jaskier snapped his fingers.
“Case of the Mondays, it is.”
Geralt stared at him with a miserable expression.
It was not much different than his usual look, but after years of strange, supernatural friendship, Jaskier considered himself a connoisseur of Geralt’s varying moods and quirks. Most werewolves and vampires did not prefer to spend any length of time in each other’s presence, but even Jaskier’s wolf form was unusually attached to Geralt. It was often him he ended up using as a chew toy, after all.
“You mind if I stay down here for my shift?” Jaskier asked.
"You'll miss your party," said Geralt, his voice almost a whisper.
"Naw," he said. "I'm already going to miss it. Wolf me would probably spend the whole night line dancing again or something."
For a while, they just sat facing each other in the coffin, staring, and Jaskier dropped his chin to rest on his folded knees. He knew he must look as moon-eyed and dopey as usual while getting a good look at Geralt, but that was hardly his fault.
They called it puppy love for a reason.
Without consciously doing so, Jaskier's breathing slowed to match Geralt's even breaths, and he had the fleeting thought that maybe the vampire was faking a bummed out mood to draw him down here, where a relaxed, meditative state would ease the inevitably painful trauma of his transformation.
It didn't suck sometimes. Living with a house full of creatures who knew him so well.
Through the narrow slats of the basement windows, the moon rose bright and full in a crisp, black sky.
Over the thumping bass of a colorful gathering of drunken misfit supernatural creatures, a wolf began to howl.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapter 20 - Epilogue
Fandom: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms
Relationships: Link/Zelda
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence
Additional Tags: 10,000 years before BOTW, the first Calamity, Zonai Link
Excerpt: “I love you,” he said as garlands of flowers were wrapped around their joined hands.
“I love you,” she said as her lips brushed his.
She remembered the boy she had met so long ago, the one who had saved her life again and again. She remembered the feeling of barely knowing him, but still feeling that he was somehow so important to her. Maybe the most important person she had ever met. Now, she knew Link like she knew her own heart, and she wanted to spend the rest of her life knowing him, and even beyond that, too. If there was an after to love him in, she knew her soul would find his and they would be together.
Jaskier: I am gay, I am homeless, I am a serial killer, and I’m new in town!
An extra long chapter! As a treat!
Warnings! Smut, CBT (not the therapy)
Masterlist!
***
They leave the motel early in the morning. There’s someone else sitting behind the counter now, an old woman as opposed to the younger man that was there yesterday, and Geralt has to fight to hide his disappointment.
The rest of the way to Los Angeles is fairly quiet, with Jaskier singing along to the music in the car, wearing the stolen sunglasses, feet propped up on the dashboard, and Geralt driving.
When they finally reach the bustling city, though, Jaskier sits upright in favour of gaping around at the tall buildings, at the sidewalks filled with people, and eventually, at the salty and warm ocean in the distance, flanked by white and soft beaches.
“It’s beautiful,” Jaskier breathes out at one point, and Geralt agrees, though his eyes are stuck on his love’s face. He’s never been a massive fan of the ocean, anyways.
They rent a motel room for the next week or so, near the beach. It’s quite expensive, but with his full bank account in his back seat, no care for the future, and the excited sparkle in Jaskier’s eyes, he can’t bring himself to really give a shit as he pays the bored-looking woman behind the desk.
After that, Geralt lets Jaskier freshen up in the bathroom, as he counts the money they’ve got. It’s several tens of thousands worth in cash, so he’s sure it’ll last them a long while - if not years, then definitely months. He stores it all away again, before tucking his gun into his waistband, some bills into his pocket, just in case.
He turns on the tv as he waits for Jaskier to finish up, but pales when he sees his own face flash across the screen. The news anchor tells the story of how he got killed by a serial killer named Jaskier and that any details about the location of his corpse or the whereabouts of his murderer would be highly appreciated and rewarded. He scoffs. Clearly, Jaskier’s plan has worked - they really do think his love killed him, burned his house down, and stole his money. Which is good, of course.
What’s a little less good, is that now it’s on national television, and the feds have basically put a price on Jaskier’s head. Worry coils in his stomach, but he quickly shuts the tv off when the door to the bathroom unlocks. (He’s not sure why Jaskier insisted on locking the bathroom door, since they’re well past that point, but he’s no longer complaining about it now, glad with the heads-up.)
Jaskier practically skips across the room, taking Geralt’s hand in both of his, basically pulling him off the bed. “Come on, I wanna go to the beach and look at the sunset.”
Geralt rolls his eyes, smiling anyways, allowing his love to pull him out of the door, having half a mind to lock it behind them, before Jaskier drags him in the direction of the beach.
And it’s a perfect afternoon, in every conceivable way, really. They walk across the boulevards, the sun shining down on them. He buys Jaskier ice cream, and Jaskier giggles like a child and forces him to buy some for himself as well, tells him he has to stop holding out on himself like that, tells him that he needs to treat himself more often, and that he deserves it. Geralt is almost inclined to believe him. Eventually, they make their way over to the beach, and they stand there together, feet in the warm water, as Jaskier watches the sunset he so desperately wanted to see, and Geralt looks at the person he would dedicate his entire life to, if Jaskier wanted it.
And he pushes the worries of what he saw on tv to the back of his mind, drowns out the realization that they can’t stay here forever with Jaskier’s soft humming and wild laughter, doesn’t allow himself to think about anything other than his love, his everything, his Jaskier.
When they eventually return back to their motel, he feels warm and soft and fuzzy, and he follows Jaskier’s advice - he lets himself. He lets himself feel warm, feel soft, feel fuzzy, as he holds his love to his chest that night, and for a moment, everything is perfect.
---
He wakes in the morning with a start, as Jaskier pushes against his shoulder.
“Come on, sleepy, time to get up. We’ve got so much to see around here, and I really wanna swim in the ocean today.”
Geralt groans, burying his face into the pillow. “What’s the time?”
“11.”
He blinks, then frowns, looks up at Jaskier’s expectant face. “Wait, what?”
“It’s 11, it’s nearly noon, now get your lazy, perfect ass out of bed!”
Jaskier, in his excitement, has already washed and dressed, Geralt notices, and he sighs softly as he sits up. “Alright, alright. Give me ten minutes.”
“I don’t wanna wait ten minutes!”
Geralt rolls his eyes, though he can’t keep a fond smile from tugging at his lips, as he looks at his - quite annoying - love. “Are you suggesting I go outside in just my underwear?”
Jaskier laughs, climbs into his lap, and Geralt’s hands settle on the younger man’s hips. “Well, not that I would very much mind. And I don’t think the rest of LA would either - trust me, I’ve seen weirder things than people in underwear already and I’ve only been here about a day. But no, love, I don’t want the rest of the world to see you half-naked. That’s a privilege for me and me alone that I hold close to my aching heart, my love.”
Geralt snorts, landing a small kiss on Jaskier’s lips. “You’re so dramatic, dear. But if you can’t wait, then go ahead without me, I’ll catch up later.”
Jaskier pouts. “But you won’t know where I’ll be.”
“But you don’t wanna wait for me to get dressed, either, do you?”
Jaskier sighs, then rolls his eyes. “No, I suppose not.” He kisses Geralt again, softly this time. “Alright, fine, you and your perfect, very boring ass can stay in here while I go have fun, then.”
He makes a move to get up, but the tightening of Geralt’s hands around his hips stops him, and he cocks his head.
“Promise me one thing,” Geralt whispers to him, fear and worry rising again in his chest.
“Alright, love, anything.”
“No killing.”
Jaskier pouts, lets out a whiny noise. “Why not?”
“Because we just got here, and I would hate for us to have to leave already because you couldn’t keep your knife in your pants.”
Jaskier laughs, then pouts again. “Can’t I just stab them a little bit? Just a bit?”
Geralt mock-glares at him and Jaskier laughs again. “No, you can’t.” He drops his voice to a whisper. “But seriously, promise me you won’t kill anyone. Please.”
Jaskier rolls his eyes, but nods anyways. “Alright, fine. No killing.” Geralt glares at him again. “Fine, I promise. There, all good?”
Geralt lets go of his hips. “All good,” he says, smiling when Jaskier leaps up, bounding for the door, quickly leaving with a: “See you tonight, love!”
He shakes his head, fondness blooming in his chest, as he stands up to take a shower.
---
Night has started to fall already when Jaskier finally returns to the motel room. He gives Geralt a quick, tight-lipped smile, before hurrying to the bathroom.
Geralt frowns. He knows Jaskier by now, and this behaviour is not like him - at all. “Jaskier, what’s going on?”
Jaskier smiles, breathes out a quick huff of a laugh, as he continues to the bathroom. “Nothing, nothing, love. Just need a quick shower to wash this sweat and seawater off me.”
“Jaskier, I know you’re lying.”
“What? No, I’m not, I would never.”
“Jaskier.”
The younger man already has the doorknob to the bathroom in his hand, and Geralt knows that if he doesn’t stop him now, he’ll probably never find out what’s going on. “Stop right there, boy.”
Jaskier does stop, luckily, a small shiver running down his spine at the word. Though, he doesn’t turn to face Geralt.
“Turn around, boy.”
Jaskier does as he’s told, his gaze flitting around the room, looking at anything and everything but Geralt. He almost looks... scared, even, he notices, and worry and panic coil in his gut.
That’s when he sees the small, dark stain on the front of Jaskier’s shirt - dark brown, though he knows it must’ve been deep red not so long ago.
He sighs, anger and annoyance rising in him. “Speak, boy. What did you do?”
Jaskier fidgets with his own hands, gaze still not meeting Geralt’s. He mumbles something under his breath, red rising to his cheeks.
“What was that?”
“I, uh... I maybe sort of, uh... stabbed someone?” He does finally meet Geralt’s eyes, guilt and embarrassment in his own blue ones. “Sorry?”
Geralt sighs again, pinching the bridge of his nose. This is exactly what they don’t need right now - extra attention drawn to them, the suspicions of the cops raised at what was probably a cold-hearted murder. But a murder nonetheless, he knows, because Jaskier doesn’t half-ass shit, especially murder. Hopefully that also means there are no witnesses.
“Why?” The question comes out flat in an effort to keep the annoyance and anger from his voice. “I told you not to. You promised me you wouldn’t! And now you come in here and you tell me you stabbed someone? Why’d you do that?” Despite his earlier resolve, he cannot keep the volume of his voice down, cannot keep his anger from shining through.
Jaskier flinches a bit, though there is defiance in his eyes. “He catcalled me!”
“So you stabbed him? Please tell me you didn’t kill him in the middle of the street.”
“No! I... I may have given him a little wink, and beckoned for him to follow me, and I may have led him into a shady alley, and I may have stabbed him several times there. But I covered his mouth! And I barely got any blood on me!”
“Oh, yeah, that makes it so much better, thank you for that, all is now forgiven.”
“Really?”
“No, of course not!” He takes a few deep breaths, steadying himself. Finally, he looks up again, at Jaskier, who’s still standing in front of the bathroom door, hands fisting his own bloodied shirt. “Obviously, I can’t let you just get away with this, boy. You have to be punished.”
Another shiver runs through Jaskier’s body, and Geralt can practically see his eyes darken from where he’s still sitting on the bed. “Yes, sir,” Jaskier whispers.
“Take off your shirt. I don’t wanna have to look at that bloodstain another fucking second, you hear me?”
Jaskier obliges with a soft: “yes, sir.”
“Come here, boy.” He pats his lap, and Jaskier walks towards him, knees shaking, wiping his sweaty hands on his trousers. Speaking of, Geralt can already see the outline of Jaskier’s hardening cock through the fabric, and he feels a small rush of satisfaction at the knowledge his words alone already have such an effect on the younger man.
“No,” he says, when Jaskier moves to sit down in his lap. “On your stomach, boy.”
Jaskier exhales a shaky breath, nodding as he lays down on his stomach, across Geralt’s thighs, one hand holding onto the nightstand, another to Geralt’s thigh, his legs stretched out behind him, the tips of his toes barely touching the floor.
“Hmm,” he hums, as he hooks the fingers of one hand under Jaskier’s waistband, the other snaking through brown curls, pulling on them tightly, eliciting a small gasp from the younger man. “I’d almost tell you you’re a good boy, but if you were, we wouldn’t be here in the first place, now would we?”
Jaskier shakes his head as well as he can with Geralt holding on to his hair, whispering out a “no, sir”, breath catching in his lungs when Geralt’s yanks his shorts to his ankles in one movement.
He softly taps one of Jaskier’s ass cheeks, making him shiver in his lap. “How many do you think you deserve, boy?”
Jaskier stammers for a few seconds. “I- I don’t know, I, uh... I don’t know?” His voice is high, desperate, pleading, and Geralt almost feels ashamed at the fact that he can feel his own cock fattening in the confinements of his trousers. Almost.
He swats Jaskier’s ass again, eliciting a soft yelp from underneath his hands. “Answer me, boy. How many?”
“I, uh... fifteen?”
“Hmm,” he muses. “Twenty it is, then.”
It earns him a small sound of protest, and he tightens his hand in Jaskier’s hair, basking in the small hiss of pain.
“Got a problem with that, boy?” He smiles softly when he can feel Jaskier’s already hard cock twitch against the side of his thigh, can feel the dampness of precome leaking onto the sheets and into the fabric of his trousers.
“No, sir,” Jaskier whispers, and Geralt nods, before letting go of his hair.
“Count for me, boy.”
Jaskier barely has time to choke out a “yes, sir”, before Geralt’s hand already lands on his left ass cheek, hard and fast and merciless. “One,” he whispers.
“Hmm. Good boy.”
He strikes again. And again, and again, and again. After five slaps, Jaskier is already a whimpering mess underneath him, the supple flesh of his ass tender, his creamy skin an angry red.
After ten slaps, Jaskier starts crying out after every strike, trying to move away from Geralt’s hand, though his other arm holds the younger man in place.
“Please,” Jaskier whimpers, squirming in Geralt’s lap, salty tears gathering in his eyes. “Please, enough.”
Geralt bunches the flesh of one cheek in his hand, kneeding it roughly, eliciting another whimper from the younger man. “This is your fault, boy. You promised not to murder, and you did it anyway. This is on you. Now, do you remember your word, boy?”
The word to end this all, the word to use if it gets too much or too painful. Jaskier nods, stifling a soft sob. “I remember, sir.”
“Alright, good boy.” The praise makes Jaskier shiver softly. “Keep counting.”
He lands the next slap slightly below Jaskier’s ass, making sure he hits skin that he hasn’t hit yet, that’s not as numb as the rest of his flesh - but it only earns him a soft whimper and a whispered “eleven”.
The four slaps after that don’t do much better, and Geralt knows that, by the time they reach fifteen, Jaskier has grown accustomed to the pain. But that’s not what he wanted - he wanted Jaskier to realize the full severity of his actions, wanted him to bear the full weight of his punishment.
“Bend your legs, boy,” he tells Jaskier, and though the younger man frowns in confusion, he obliges.
Geralt yanks his shorts from his ankles, telling him to lower his legs again with a soft push against his calves. Then, he kicks Jaskier’s legs open with his foot. “Got five more to go, boy.” And Jaskier shivers in anticipation, no doubt already suspecting where this is going. “Count for me,” he whispers, voice hoarse with want and need, as his own hard cock strains against the fabric of his jeans, only twitching more when he thinks about what’s to come.
He lands the next slap on Jaskier’s balls, and the younger man cries out in surprise and pain.
“Count,” Geralt hisses through clenched teeth, the friction of Jaskier squirming in his lap, his stomach brushing against Geralt’s cock over and over again almost overwhelming.
Another slap on Jaskier’s balls, this time harder, though he softly caresses them while he waits for the younger man to choke out a “seventeen”.
Eighteen and nineteen follow quickly after that, and he waits for a few seconds, grants his love some respite before number twenty. He lands the last one a little lower, striking both Jaskier’s balls and painfully hard cock.
Jaskier cries out again, though even louder this time, his whole body shuddering underneath Geralt’s hands, as he pants. Geralt frowns - he really hadn’t expected that much of a reaction, but it all suddenly makes sense when he feels warm wetness seeping into the side of his pants.
He feels his eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, as he threads two fingers through the mess on his trousers and the sheets, humming out a soft “hmm” when they come back wet and sticky and white.
He looks to his left, as Jaskier hides his red face in the sheets, his neck and shoulders flushed beautifully.
“I didn’t give you permission to come,” Geralt says flatly.
Jaskier nods, turning his face to look up at him, eyes big and pleading and guilty. “I know. I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to.”
He sighs, all fight leaving him in one, big huff, as he softly pats the small of Jaskier’s back. “It’s alright. Just this once.”
Jaskier smiles up at him. “Thank you, sir.”
Geralt rolls his eyes, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Alright, alright, come on, up, dear.”
Jaskier pushes himself up, moving so he’s straddling Geralt’s lap, arms around his neck, foreheads pressed together. “I’m sorry, love.”
“You already said that, and I told you it’s fine.”
“No, I mean I’m sorry for... you know... stabbing that guy.”
Geralt sighs again, pulling Jaskier closer. “I know you are. It’s just... I worry. Every time you kill someone, the chances of us getting caught, getting separated, grow. I can’t let anything happen to you. That’s why I was so angry, I guess.”
Jaskier smiles down at him, pecking a small kiss to his cheek, to his nose, to the corner of his mouth, and finally to his lips. “I understand. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”
Geralt lets out a quiet breath, his worry leaving him with the air. “Thank you, dear.”
He stands up, lifting Jaskier with ease, before turning around, lowering them both on the soft bed. It’s dark outside, already, and though he’s slept so long the previous night, he still feels tired.
Jaskier smiles at him again, all bright, blue eyes and rosy lips and brown curls and pure sunshine, as he softly traces Geralt’s nose, his cheekbones, the outline of his lips with one finger. “I love you, you know.”
Geralt smiles softly. “I know. I love you too.”
Jaskier bites his bottom lip, seemingly hesitant to say something, the steady course of his finger faltering.
“Come on,” Geralt whispers. “Spit it out.”
“Wanna get married?”
He breathes out a soft huff of laughter, before gently kissing Jaskier. “Yes, I wanna get married,” he whispers against his love’s lips, smiling when Jaskier’s face turns ever brighter, his grin ever wider.
“Alright, then. Guess we’re getting married.”
Geralt smiles again - or still. He’s not sure whether or not he stopped smiling in the first place. He supposes he hasn’t stopped since he and Jaskier ran away together, though, so he figures it doesn’t really matter now.
“Okay, love you,” he whispers, as his eyes drift closed. He’s never felt more content, more at peace, more in love, though his mind sure tries to, when Jaskier whispers an “I love you” back - the last thing he hears before he falls asleep.
---
He wakes up in the morning to the sound of a gun being cocked, and he instinctively tightens his arm around Jaskier. Something feels wrong, something feels very wrong.
He figures out what it is when he opens his eyes, finding 5 men dressed in tactical gear surrounding their bed, finding himself staring down the barrels of 5 assault rifles.
Yah, I've edited this epilogue a million times and will probably continue to do so until I have a fr fr first chapter of the coming of age arc, but *finger guns*
here you go. Enjoy the vibe if nothing else. What matters is that Min befriends Ray when he's separated from his family.
(Cethin is Ray)
The wind blows in my face, as I walk to my old park. I am doing my near nightly routine of walking to the bar and then walking back home. Often, I stop at the park to smoke.
It helps. But not enough. I don’t know what will stop this heavy weight in my chest. I lean against a tree and fish for my lighter in my pocket. A familiar, but somewhat new, voice calls my name. “Hey, loser.”
The voice sounds drunk, something I know Cethin knows he shouldn’t be doing. That makes two of us. I flick my lighter, a flame coming out. The end of my cigarette lights, and I take a long drag, before greeting the new refugee in town.
“You called?”
The gangly teenager waves at me with a toothy grin. He has a beer bottle dangling from his right hand. I almost ask him for some, but I know he won’t share.
“I checked the park if you were here and you weren’t. I know you and the alcohol aren’t friends.” He hugs the beer bottle to his chest. He starts to whisper loudly to it, and I don’t know if I should be concerned or laugh. “I won’t let Min drink you. It’s okay.” He straightens, throwing me a sneaky smile. “Shoo. I want to be drunk in peace. But I can’t do that when you and the alcohol are enemies.”
“It’s dangerous drinking alone in the park. Could get mugged.”
Cethin frowns at me. “Do you think Lao will be able to feel it if I’m mugged? Because, I’m thinking if I piss Lee and Lao off enough, they’ll snap their fingers and appear.”
“Wouldn’t they snap their fingers and appear regardless?”
“Lee’s fingers…they’re so small.” Ray starts to snap his own fingers, which make no sound. He’s either too drunk to snap his fingers, or it is a talent he has not come to possess yet. “He can’t do it. And Lao…he’s dumb. He’s just an idiot.”
I raise an eyebrow. I’ll have to add that one to the list of things that Cethin has rambled to me about Lao and Lee. Sometimes for writing practice, I’ll write down things he’s said that I’ll secretly show his family later.
“I hate to break it to you, but your plan won’t work.”
Cethin pouts at me. “You don’t know that.”
“I do, because there are a lot of things I would do if I could snap my fingers.”
“Party pooper. You should go home. I want to roam the park in peace, but instead you’re here ruining my mood and plans.”
I snort, causing him to throw a nasty glare at me. I cover myself with a cough. “Smoking. It’s super bad for me. Sorry.”
Cethin rolls his eyes and grumbles, “I stole to piss off Lao too. I’ve got like…five more crimes to commit before going home.”
“You are in desperate need of a no-crime-do list.”
“I can’t read.”
“Yes, but Ellen and I can and we will remind you.”
“My second crime was going to be…vandalism. Well, no. I have to steal the supplies. So that’s my third crime.” He holds up four fingers.
I bring the cigarette to my lips, taking in one last breath. I blow out the smoke. As entertaining it would be to see what Cethin would come up with in regards to vandalism, I have a feeling that now is not the time for such shenanigans.
Maybe that’s a crime we can commit when things are more stable in his home. My stomach drops. Then again, with my standing in this town, perhaps it’s not wise to get into such mischief period.
It’s another reason I walk at night. There’s no one there to stare at me in disgust.
“Come on, we’re going home. Dump out the alcohol.”
“No.” Cethin takes a large swig of it, and then drops it on the grass. “Finished.”
I flick aside my cigarette. “Remind me to make Jing take me home when we get there.”
“On it.”
Trying to ignore the tempting smell of alcohol, I approach Cethin and wrap an arm around him. “It’s dangerous out here, you know. Got mugged a few times.”
“I laugh in the face of danger.”
“Do you now?”
“Mm…I’m a laugher.” Cethin’s head droops and strands of loosely curled chestnut hair fall in his face. “It’s why Lao needs to come back, so he can laugh. Ver..Awiti doesn’t get it. If we have a good time here, then we can donate our laughs to Lao.”
“Is that so?” I ask.
“Mhm…” Cethin stumbles, and I catch him. Cethin pauses and rests his head against my chest. His arms wrap around me, and I slowly hug him back. “Lee was my platonic husband…” What had before been a trembling lip turns into a smile. His eyes peek up at me. “Do you think he’ll be mad if you’re my platonic mistress?”
“What on earth is a platonic husband?”
“It’s someone you do everything with. But no kissing. It’s a higher order of marriage. And then when your siblings are stupid, you make plans with the platonic husband to stop your siblings from being dumb-dumbs. You have to jump over a line of pine cones to officiate it.”
I can’t tell if this is a drunken ramble or if Ray really goes around calling Lee his platonic husband. “So what’s the difference between that and a platonic mistress?”
“It’s the same thing, dipshit. But I’m cheating on Lee. I help you when Ellen is stupid, and you help me when Verity is stupid. A-and I betray you and help Ellen and Winola when you’re stupid, but…” he puts a finger to his lips. “Don’t tell.”
“You need to go to bed.”
“I just proposed to you.” His mouth drops open. “You’re missing out on the platonic marriage deal.”
I sigh. He’ll probably forget this in the morning. “Sure.”
Cethin lets go of me, pumping his fist in the air. He bends over, nearly falling, but catching himself just in time. He lines up a group of pebbles onto the cement right behind me.
“We have to jump over this.”
“I’m not jumping.”
“Then get jumped.” He lunges at me putting his full, scrawny body weight into mine, which does nothing but make me stumble backwards. Cethin busts up into laughter, pointing at the pebbles. “You went over the line. You’re my mistress. Lee is going to be so mad.”
Cethin scrunches up his face, in what I think is an imitation of what Lee looks like when he’s mad. “Okay, um…sure. I guess we’re platonic mistresses. I’m going to have to take you to bed.”
Cethin bursts into a fit of immature giggles, and I take the opportunity to put my arm around him again, guiding him down the pavement towards Jing’s. The whole time, he rambles to me about Lee and their platonic marriage. Some of it is things I’ve heard before, other things new. He tells me once more that Lee is a head shorter than Cethin and has two braids. I learn that he’s a sneaky little guy but that’s a big secret, because Lao doesn’t suspect it. Lee cheats in every game he plays, but he’s so cute that he always gets away with it. He starts to tell me of how Lee would help him take care of Lao and Awiti. They would never take care of themselves, so the two of them would help make them happy, do chores, or force them to eat. Lee is his best friend and understands him the way no one else does. He loves Lee and wants him to be safe.
My face falls, as Cethin confesses that’s why he let Lao leave, because he couldn’t bear Lee being left behind. But he also couldn’t bear his sister to go back to slavery. He doesn’t say how, but that’s how this all started, because he wanted to protect Awiti.
The porchlight from Jing’s doorstep illuminates a tear stricken face from Cethin. His eyes are wide, when he says “That’s why I need you. Verity is really stupid, and it’s a two person job to keep her in line.”
I nod knowingly. “Be honest with Jing. Jing is more helpful than you think.”
“He’s an adult.” Cethin folds his arms.
“Jing saved my life. He cares a lot about the kids, and he’ll care about your sister.”
Cethin’s face softened. “He saved your life?”
My mind wanders to the windy road that Jing had found me on two months prior. “All the time. He can help your sister. I’ll help out too. Scour Vira to see if your family is here. Leave no stone unturned. And while we do that, we can show your sister why it’s better to stay. I used to be a criminal. I have some ulterior methods to finding people.” A smile lights on Cethin’s face. “Don’t tell Jing I said this, but he used to be a criminal too. Same with Sunya. We’ll keep your sister busy. We can create a home here, and maybe your sister will see the value of staying, because she’ll want to share that home with Lao.”
Cethin’s arms wrap around me tightly again. It’s at least a minute until he pulls back. “Thanks. You’re a good friend. If you ask me sober, I didn’t say this, but I’m glad I met you here.”
I force a smile onto my lips. Throat tightening, I swallow away a lump. I don’t want Cethin to know how much that means to me quite yet. “I’m glad I met you here too.”
Cethin smiles up at me, and I feel the heavy weight on my shoulders lighten a bit for the first time in months.
The forced smile softens into a genuine one, and I ruffle the top of his hair, messing up his bun. His arms are still wrapped tight around my waist, when I knock on the door for Jing.
Ellen’s words of wisdom come back to me. Looking down at Cethin, a realization hits me.
Naturally, she was right. This wasn’t the end. I have a nudge that this is just the start of something new.
Kookie and Mochi bond over their shared love for Studio Ghibli and a beautiful relationship blooms. Meanwhile, Jungkook and Jimin hate each other with a burning passion.
What happens when the two are paired for the upcoming dance performance? 30/30
